The Prism of Childhood

I wage an internal war with my ability to mother. Okay, it isn't at all internal. My family sees it quite plainly every other week or so, as the pendulum of my sanity swings from stable to unstable in the blink of an eye.

I had a tremendous childhood. Not perfect, mind you, but one that fills me with many happy memories when I choose to reflect upon it. And naturally, I want to recreate that for my girls. I want them to be on a sports team. I want them to feel free to be silly. I want them to play outside and breathe deeply of the cold winter air. I want them to have what I had.

And I am lackluster, at best, in providing it. I find every reason why signing my 5 year old up for a team would be too much effort. For me. I stifle the silly escapades of my gleeful, happy girls, craving the silence that is nectar to my soul. I abstractly wave off requests to go outside and play fairies in the field across the street. Because I am right in the middle of a really good book.

And they will be young forever.

And they will never stop asking to be the center of my attention.

And my quiet repulsions of their lavishly bestowed love will not sting their tiny hearts.

What dawned upon me is that I am chasing a dream. I see my memories through the prism of childhood. I do not see the sacrifices my mother made to drive my sisters and me to this lesson or that lesson. I do not see the multiple times she laid aside her own interests to help me pursue my own.

I simply feel her love. I feel her pride in me. I feel her eternal connection to my struggles and my triumphs.

Maybe my method will be different from how my mother shared her love. Maybe I am not capable of doing it just as she did.

Sometimes, though, it is not so much about the how.

Praise

I shut down for about a month. I changed the settings on my blog so it was invisible. I deactivated my Facebook account. I totally surrendered my website and domain name. I barely touched my camera.

I hid myself from the world. Julie Rivera, Photographer, died a sudden, invisible death.

I was amazed at the amount of time I had to myself. No blog to worry over. No Facebook friends to catch up with. No articles to read. No videos to watch. Certainly no emails from prospective clients to hope for.

I read four books. Adult books. No pictures included.

I unhurriedly laid with my 2 year old at bedtime, singing multiple renditions of "Jesus Loves Me," until she fell asleep for the first two nights in her newly converted toddler bed. I wasn't mentally calculating my strategy in escaping the room and hopping on the computer for 15 minutes before her sister's bedtime. I just settled in for as long as it took. I was a mother. No caveat, no hyphenated title. And it felt satisfyingly simple.

Yet, I still had a struggle. Despite the peaceful, easy flow of my family life during this last month, I felt I was missing something.

Almost shamefully, I confessed to myself that I needed applause. I needed to know I existed outside the realm of daily motherhood. I wanted to know that I resonated with someone, anyone, outside my small sphere of The Rivera Family of Five. So it was acknowledged. And accepted, though begrudgingly. I wish I didn't relish praise as much as I do. It seems prideful or embarrassing or negative somehow.

I activated my Facebook account on Saturday. I took pictures on Monday. Again on Tuesday. And today. I finally wrote this post with many starts, stops and deletions.

I won't hear that I was a good mother until my children are grown with children of their own. I know this because that is when I finally, fully realized what an amazing job my own mother did. But I do not have the wherewithal to wait 25 years before hearing I am good at something. I need something to tide me over when the rambunctiously well intentioned dance-a-thon in front of the television results in a two child pile up.

I will again toss out these bits of myself, the self that sees the early morning fog and dashes out to capture it before it is time to drive off to school. I will do it for me. And I am happy it you choose to tag along.

While I was surfing...

Honestly, she plays well by herself. While she was entertained with an alphabet puzzle, I was surfing the internet for amazing Christmas deals. In between scouring Amazon and LL Bean's stocking stuffer gift ideas, I felt a tap on my leg.

And I heard a new word. An undecipherable word, delivered with the lisping agility of my two year old.

I looked down and quickly put the pieces together.

She can now say, "Painting." And she is rather smug about her skills...both artistic and linguistic.

Mental Image

I do a lot of thinking. Envisioning how events "should" go. Walking through future moments, trying to alleviate any potential problem by excessive prior planning.

Where I fail is in verbalizing these much contemplated plans. No one else is privy to my well constructed, beautifully crafted perfection of an outing. And no one else really cares about my flaw-free mental image.

For I am surrounded by spontaneous free spirits who do not share my love of detail.

When I set out yesterday with my girls, dressed in coordinating little outfits, I had a specific image in my mind's eye. A sweet moment with the two darling cuddlebugs sitting side by side on a set of steps, holding hands. Fallen leaves would adorn the background, the well placed garland and Christmas bows adding a delightful splash of color.

That scenario was not even remotely achieved. My mental image was a complete failure. But the real thing, the thing I have learned to allow myself to enjoy more than the mental image, was wonderful. I was out with my girls, frolicking on one of the last temperate days before winter closes in. I watched as one collected rocks and the other tried to make crafts with leaves and gumballs. I saw the daring of the big one imitated by the little one. I heard happy laughter.

The real thing is so much better than my over-thought ideas. For the plans never seem to include happy laughter.

Gridiron

I was holding a half eaten bag of cotton candy and wearing a homemade Wow, Wow Wubbzy scarf that my daughter shed earlier in the first quarter. I failed miserably at trying to blend in as a member of the press. Surprisingly, though, no one shooed me away from my spot 5 feet from the field's sideline.

There are some distinct advantages to living in a small town.

The half time show was an impeccable performance by the United States Army Old Guard Fife and Drum Corps. As an unwavering fan of military pomp and circumstance, I am being afforded so many rich and wonderful opportunities during my husband's tour at VMI.

Passage

This week marked Ring Figure for the juniors at VMI. As an outsider, I can't fully appreciate what this event signifies. I caught hints of stories of excess, of an unabashed freedom uncommon to this regimented school, of craziness that only college students can tolerate. But I also saw the pride of these new ring bearers as they cast frequent glances at the unfamiliar weight on their hand, comparing theirs with fellow classmates, shaking the large, traditional ring that unites them with all past and future Brother Rats. They crossed a threshold. And I could tell it felt good.

This week was also the last football game of the season, marking the last tailgate out on the parade field and the last pre-football parade. The cadets were decked out in their "Overcoat Full Dyke" uniform, perhaps the finest one I have yet seen.

As you will see below, the band played some rousing marches that were thoroughly enjoyed by my free spirited daughter. (It was all I could do to control her during the Star Spangled Banner. We will work on patriotic etiquette this week.)

Desaturation

It drizzled yesterday. It rained today. It was grey. It was breezy. The breeze knocked the raindrops from the dying leaves.

The color is draining from my view. The dampness is ominous, heralding an unavoidable drop in temperatures. The world is shedding its last hints of fall splendor. The world is desaturating.